


Haine

by MaChi1993



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, HRE's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaChi1993/pseuds/MaChi1993
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upin hearing about Holy Roman Empire's death, Italy Veneziano reaction was strangely calm</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haine

**Author's Note:**

> Another translation of mine, this time a pretty old one.  
> Please let me know errors and a way to better translate! Thank you!
> 
> Enjoy!

Enjoy!

"Holy Roman Empire is dead."

Only five words.

He didn't mention neither a little bit of the speech he had prepared before Italy's arrival from Austria.

There were no desperate hugs, or hand on shoulders to console a broken soul – a gesture that would only bring to him more pain, as if the deep wounds, the haunting memory of Prussia's angriest look, and his hands dirty with the blood of a child weren't enough.

There were no cries. Only silence.

"So," he stopped, trying to find the best way to conclude the sentence, "stop waiting for him."

There's still the silence. A deafening silence. A sinister silence.

He waited. He looked attentively Italy's honey-brown eyes, every little movement of that adolescent body –when did he grow up that much anyway – looking for something –anger, sadness, pain, hate, anything! – that could let him know the other's thoughts; but he found himself unable to understand the other nation's feelings. He was shocked by this realization.

When did I lose the ability to feel my petit frère's emotions?

The silence continued, and France began to worry. He didn't thought that that meeting would have gone this way: he knew Feliciano, he had expected desperate cries, screams full of pain, maybe insults and even a punch.

But nothing of this happened.

Feliciano remained in silence, perfectly still before his bed, empty eyes fixed on nothing.

Upon knowing of Holy Roman Empire's death, Italy's Veneziano's reaction was strangely calm.

"Ve~ here we go." Italy said ting the bandage on a still hurt France's left hand; the latter nodded abstent-mindedly, observing first the young Italian who was tidying the medical materials , then his own wrapped up fingers.

How can you cure the hand that had killed your beloved?

"Ve~ fratellone if you don't need me anymore, I'll go to prepare dinner." The voice of a smiling Italy catch up his attention. Francis looked at him while he went near the bed and bent over to kiss him on the forehead – cold and dry lips: his lips were never cold and dry, neither in the coldest winters.

"Oui, do as you please, make yourself at home." He said, smiling a little and trying to not look into those opaque spheres embedded into the other's face like they were the devil's eyes.

"Ve~fratellone, are you still in pain?" asked Italy, worried by his big brother's silence, putting an hand on his shoulder. France instinctively backed down from that touch liked it was hot steel.

"N-Non" he said, smiling uncertainly when he noticed the hurt in the Italian eyes – why was he acting like that? Was he afraid? It was stupid to fear the little nation: Italy was too weak and too kind-hearted to hurt someone.

"Are you sure? Did I wrapped the bandages to tight?

"They're perfectly fine" he lied, petting his hair tenderly, and he was surprised when he felt them dry and fragile.

"What about you?"

"About me what?" asked Italy innocently confuse. Francis felt the need to hit him, but hold himself.

"Are you alright?"

Italy remain silent for a moment, apparently non understanding his words completely.

"Ve~ I'm not the hurt one." he said, laughing stupidly.

Francis bit him bottom lips, holding an insult.

That's not true! That's. Not. True! You're more hurt than me, I know that!

"Ve~ now lie down on the bed, you need to rest, ok?" Veneziano helped him to get comfortable on the soft cushions, not even imagine what was going on in his big brother's head.

"Y-You-"

You should insult me!

You should say: "It was your fault if he died! You are nothing more than a filth assassin! I hate you!"

Do it, it's not that hard!

"Si? What is it?"

You should hit me, hurt me at the best of your ability, make me feel the same- no: a little bit of that pain you're feeling! Because I know you are suffering! I know that deep inside you hate me, I know how your feeling!

He wished he could said this things and much more. But from his lips, save for a "Nothing," barely audible – which Italy hardly understood – anything was said.

"Ve~ alright then." Italy tucked the sheet on the French-man still painful body, then turned towards the door. France sighed, and closed his eyed ready for a troublesome sleep.

"Ve~ fratellone?" Feliciano's voice was strangely monotone, and France raised his head at best of his actual abilities so he could get a better view of the other's small back.

"Don't worry about me," said the Italian without turning around, "If I feel that I can't take the pain anymore, I will cry and scream until I0ll let it out. So… stop acting like you care about me."

Francis listened to that words with crescent shock. He painfully sat up, always looking to Feliciano until he exited the room.

How can this be? Can't you even hate, Feliciano? Aren't you even able to hate me?

"Ve~ fratellone, can we have pasta for dinner?" Italy's head popped up behind the heavy door, a plastic smile on his pale face.

Francis looked at him in disbelieve for some moments, that lowered his gaze towards his wrapped hands.

"Sure." he answered with trembling voice, lining down on the soft bed, listening to Italy's laugh like a distorted eco – that sweet, kind creature who treated his wounds and took care of the same hands who had, again, made hi land a bloody battlefield; who was getting down the stairs, while singing an italian song that talked about a dying love, to prepare the dinner for the man who had took the life of loved-one, who, even after all troublesome times, still loved him.

He stared to the ceiling, noticing only now the cracks into the cream-colored plaster.

Honestly.

Francis felt tears in his eyes that France refused to let out.

This hurts more than anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> A little thing about the name: I have a theory of mine, that nations have something like a "double personality:" the nation itself, who persuit self-determination and its safety, and a more human side.
> 
> I'm used to distinguish the two sides with names: for example, France for the nation, and Francis for the human.
> 
> That's the reason for the precence of both the nation and the human name in the story ^^
> 
> Hope you like the story :3


End file.
